Music of the Night
by Firestarter62
Summary: Newly christened Slayer Quinn Fabray finds herself dealing with a host of problems in her already complicated life: A vampire cult, a mysterious pendant, and Rachel Berry, the most annoying girl in the world.


_**Disclaimer: Buff the Vampire Slayer and Glee do not belong to me, they are property of Mutant Enemy and Ryan Murphy Productions, respectively.**_

_**Author's Note: Not sure how I came up with the idea for a crossover like this, but hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time, so I went with it! Note that the title is referring to the song The Music of the Night from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera.**_

**Chapter 1: Start Me Up**

The moon shone brightly overhead, a semicircular beacon to contrast the darkness of the sky it rested in. Its light reflected off the waters of a shallow pond, a near perfect image. The waters remained undisturbed, and a quiet peace seemed to have settled around it…

But that peace, like all good things, would soon end.

This particular peace ended with a large and noisy _splash! _A young man , perhaps ion his mid-to late twenties, dressed in a formfitting blue muscle shirt and loose jeans, landed in the pool, ruining the reflection of the moon. The young man refused, however, to keep down for long, and was soon back up, on his feet and ready to face his adversary.

It became quite clear very quickly, however, that this young man was far from ordinary. Let us begin with his eyes, a sickly, glowing yellow that managed to be simultaneously disturbing and mesmerizing. They did not seem like the eyes of a human, more akin to those of an angered wild animal, perhaps a mad dog, or an enraged cougar, or a malicious demon…

His eyes, however mesmerizing they may have been, were definitely not the only thing that one would point out as "off" for a man in the prime of his young life (Or as much the prime as he can see it, anyway). In fact, next to the overhanging brow that looked misshapen but intriguing in its unique grotesqueness, the canines that were certainly too large and wickedly pointed to belong to a regular human, the eyes were almost an afterthought.

The young man, or whatever he may _actually _have been, wiped his long, dark hair from his eyes. It was wet as a cat left in the rain, and nearly impossible to do anything with. It dripped steadily, returning a miniscule amount of the moisture it had absorbed during its encounter with the pond. Then, suddenly frantic, as if in a panic, he cast his unnerving eyes about the landscape, the current field of battle on which he was fighting for simple survival, searching for his opponent, he one that had caused his short flight and rough landing in the pond. The one that would kill him, leaving only dust behind with his passing. The one they called…

As quickly as a strike from a desert cobra, a petite, white sneaker clad foot flashed across the young man's face, sending him sprawling back into the pond on his hands and knees. He recovered quickly, though, this time, for he knew that if he did not that he would soon have been defeated and removed like a stain from a pristine white tablecloth. He managed to return to his feet and face his opponent. He raised his fists in preparation for the melee that was to follow.

His opponent did not mirror him, however, relying not only on her fists in this competition for survival, but on a rather large and admittedly wicked looking piece of wood in her hand, one of the only effective ways she knew of to dispatch her opponent. She crouched slightly and raised her weapon, the stake, parallel with the ground beneath her feet.

She was not, perhaps, the conventional stereotype of a fighter, not even a female one. She wore no heavy plate or mail, not even a fetching leather and spandex combo like those seen in the professional wrestling business. She was certainly no tall, dark skinned, cheetah clad African beauty either. Instead of fulfilling those stereotypes, she seemed to be quite content to play out the part of another: The high school cheerleader.

She was on the short side of five feet, not Thumbelina but certainly no Xena, Warrior Princess either. She was beautiful in that classical way that graces many famous works of art and the red carpets of Hollywood. Blond, of course, her hair tied back into a ponytail behind her head in a manner that most would call severe. Her green eyes seemed to be genetics' small way of keeping her from becoming a full on Aryan stereotype. They were focused, obviously eyes behind which rested a capable and highly analytical brain, used to storing and analyzing information about everything from important dates in history, to who was going out with whom and what was the "trendy" craze of the moment, to how best to disarm an opponent before being sliced in half and devoured.

Her outfit solidified the image that she seemed destined from birth to play. It consisted of a tight, but not inappropriately so, sleeveless top, black, white, and red in color. Across her chest were the letters WMHS, all in prominent red bubble letters. Below the waist she sported a red and white skirt that extended to just below mid-thigh, managing to be both provocative and modest at the same time. To keep off the chill of the mid-September night, she wore a red varsity jacket, WMHS once again displayed in black letters.

She faced her opponent with a steely, resolved look. Her eyes never wavered from the young man, locked tightly on to him. Her posture suggested a readiness to strike at any moment.

There was a loud splash as the young man moved forward, quicker than they eye could fathom, and opened the melee with a devastating right hook aimed squarely at the girl's chin.

_Dear Diary (Which, by the way, I think sounds so sixth grade, but Mr. Schue was pretty adamant about having an account for posterity's sake), _

_My name is Lucy Quinn Fabray, though everybody calls me Quinn. Hardly anyone even knows about the Lucy part, and considering what happened to me when I last used that name, it's going to stay that way. I'm sixteen, to be seventeen later on this year in December, and a junior at William McKinley High School. My activities are numerous, including church group, being captain of the McKinley Cheerleading squad the "Cheerios", and killing vampires, demons, and other nasties that go bump in the night._

_That last one threw you, didn't it?_

_Let me take a moment then to explain, or at least explain as much of it as I understand. Humans may think that we've cornered the market of being the strongest, smartest species in the world, that we're on top, the height of the food chains. Well, actually, humans are very, very wrong in that regard. Purple-and-orange-look-good-together wrong._

_Everyone's heard of vampires, fairies, demons, and leprechauns and stuff right? You've heard myths and legends and rumors and seen B-movies and clichéd romance novels about and stuff. Well, you might have been told that they're all just made up fantasy, and that you shouldn't be scared of them. I hate to break it to you, but actually you've been told wrong. They all exist (Except, possibly, for leprechauns, I've never really gotten any clear word on them). Most of them want to eat you, and will if the opportunity arises._

_While I suppose that, after having that stuff all laid out and terrifying like that, you might want to go run into your room, throw the covers over your head, and never come out, don't fear. Well, don't fear __**that **__much._

_I've heard it said that life, the universe, and everything is about balance. That's where I, and others like me, come in: Slayers._

The girl took a step back to avoid the punch, and then followed up with a quick one-two combination in her opponent's chest. He staggered back, and she raised her leg, planted a foot on his chest, and sent him tumbling back into the water with a loud _splash_.

He recovered quickly, rolling backwards onto his feet and raising his hands in a defensive posture. Though he still managed to project an air of ready aloofness, there was a slight shake in his body that suggested he was no longer very confident of victory at all.

His opponent could sense the fear in her adversary, and now it was her turn to flash a predatory smile. She ran forward with a yell, water splashing around her as she charged, then executed a perfect flip that launched her high into the air. She raised her stake high, poised to finish the battle.

_A Slayer is basically a young girl gifted with incredible strength, agility, and with an ability to heal quickly. Her destiny is to fight and hopefully kill any supernatural threats to the world, and every once in a while mundane ones as well (There is, however, one very oft recited law about that: No killing regular humans, even in extreme cases. Anyone who even so much as expresses disdain at this rule gets to spend a long two months with a Slayer named Faith in the highlands of Scotland). Originally, only one Slayer was able to exist at a time because… uh, well, nobody's really clear on that. For centuries the Slayer line passed from girl to girl, with one Slayer dying resulting in the immediate calling of another. A couple of years back, however, a Slayer named Buffy Summers decided that wasn't going to fly any longer, and now whoever __**may **__have become a Slayer, does._

_I am a product of that act, though my powers only recently activated. Before my power woke up, my biggest concern was not being an outcast. Now that's only my __**second **__biggest concern, taking backseat only to saving the world from the forces of darkness._

But she had, as it turned out, mistaken her opponent's uncertainty for an attitude of defeat. A foolish move in any battle, and one that would cost her.

The vampire grabbed her leg as she soared nearer, then used his own strength to turn her flight into a crash, sending her tumbling into the pond with a loud crash of disturbed water. He reared back his head and howled at the sky, his undead body charged with the ecstasy of victory.

_Well, now you know what I am. Quinn Fabray, the Vampire Slayer… Wow, reading that just made me want to close this damn journal, and I'm the author. Seriously: __Quinn the Vampire Slayer__? It sounds like the name of a bad movie, or a television show that only obsessed freaks watch. But, silly as it may be, it is __**my **__life. My crazy, insane, screwed-up life._

_But how, you may ask, did I get to the point where I can accept it and act like it's no big deal? Well that is a story in and of itself. A story that I suppose I'll have to tell, even if only to get myself to cope with it. It's a story of mystery, danger, and excitement, a story that revolves around one girl with a mysterious gift._

_And you wanna know the sad thing about that story?_

The vampire's howl slowly wore down as he found the energy the small victory he had achieved had given him. Slowly, he turned to regard the foe he had just bested, his lips pulling back in a grin not dissimilar to the grin of a wolf with crippled prey at its feet.

But, just as the Slayer had, the vampire had underestimated what he was fighting, and more importantly, who. It was a mistake that would cost him.

Dearly.

The prey was not there, the Slayer's limp body was not visible floating gently in the water like it had been when the creature had last regarded her Puzzled, the vampire turned to look for the Slayer…

When a hand reached up from the water, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him beneath the water. There was a brief splashing as the two supernaturally enhanced opponents squared off under the water, but moments later, a hand clutching a stake flew out of the water and back in in quick succession.

Then Quinn Fabray rose. She coughed and spluttered, trying desperately to remove the water from her lungs. After a few moments, she seemed to have gained control of her breathing.

The vampire was now dust, and therefore obviously no longer a threat. Shaking her wet locks one more time, she began to press back towards dry land.

Mr. Schuester stood at the shore of the lake, dressed in his usual pants-shirt-vest combo. Cradled in his arms was the body of a small Jewish girl, who was dressed like a cross between a kindergartener and a crazy cat lady that sits on her porch all day and yells at all the young people that pass by. Around her slender neck was a silver chain, with a beautiful golden star pendant hanging off it. In the faint starlight, it was quite clear that the pendant was giving off a faint glow.

_I don't even think it's actually __**about **__me._


End file.
